The Lines We Draw
by venefxcia
Summary: Bucky may have dodged death a number of times, but now he has to re-associate himself with life. Post TWS Bucky-centric WIP, mature themes inside and trigger warnings at the start of each chapter.
1. Chapter 1

Before we start, here are the triggers of the day: self harm & suicide.

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As somebody who's been brushed with death on several occasion, I stopped worrying about it and the repercussions it threatened. I had no choice but to ignore it, partly because, not only had I experienced it several times and somehow dodged it, but I had nobody around to my knowledge that would have any incentive to miss me in any way.

So when I dragged Steve from the bay and dragged myself as far away as I could, I honestly expected that it might have been the last time I'd be able to walk away from a mess like that. Sure, there was nobody to really seize control of me all over again, but there was also nobody to help me seize control of myself.

I was lost and without an identity.

I knew my name. James Buchanan Barnes. According to the articles I was able to dig up, I was born somewhere around the 20s, but clearly nobody is capable of putting an actual nail in that coffin. Technically speaking, while I don't even know how old I am biologically, I estimate that I'm something close to ninety-something at this point, masquerading in my twenties. Yeah, I know plenty about myself, but I don't know who I am at all.

That's the problem I kept finding myself trying to escape from, the sinking, rotting feeling of no self. The museum pointed me as some sort of lost war hero, and yeah, it may have been true, but it didn't feel like it happened to me. That was Sergeant Barnes, and I'm pretty sure I stopped being that person a long time ago. I didn't know who James Barnes was, and I definitely didn't know who Bucky was.

I realized this as I walked away from Steve's unconscious body by the bay. That was close to a month ago. I'm not really sure if I'd stopped walking since, at least figuratively. I remember stopping to do quick things, like cover my arm to keep myself hidden (and sure I had taken that jacket from a man I'd never met and probably never would, but that was definitely not the point), but I really never stopped walking about aimlessly, as if searching for something when I didn't know what to look for. I knew nobody, knew nothing, had no money, and no home. I would walk as long as my superhuman body would allow me to, then I would attempt to walk some more, until I would inevitably give out. I had no other choice. If I died, then that was that. I wouldn't be some ticking time bomb anymore, some machine waiting for use. At least nobody would be threatened by me anymore.

I suppose that's what kept me walking; not the promise of death but the idea of evading it once again. I suppose that I thought if I could evade it again, I could try and do right by my identity, whatever that was. Maybe this was part of who I used to be, this heavy conscience. I sort of hoped that, without the constant mind wiping HYDRA had been performing, I would be able to come back to my own, but I think that I had unrealistic expectations, at least at first. Within a couple days, I was pissed that I wasn't myself, whatever that meant. I didn't know what myself was, but I knew that what I was wasn't right.

Truth be told, I didn't know what my purpose was anymore.

It took two weeks before I became disoriented again, confused beyond repair, and violent once again. Afraid, I remember trying once to kill myself. An incredibly idiotic idea; wracked with guilt and hallucinations, I attempted to use one of my old throwing knives on my wrist, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. It was more of the guilt, the taunting idea of beating death one more time, the images that still laid in my head of an old life that didn't feel like mine anymore.

I didn't even look like the old pictures. Every picture I saw, Bucky Barnes looked like a handsome young man, equipped with a smile that was all teeth and charm, and he had to have been a hit with the ladies, because I liked to think that he was just that damn likable. I looked nothing like him. Bucky had a face that looked optimistic and young, but I looked lived in my own world for far too long. I had seen more than Bucky had, and Bucky should never see these things. Part of me hoped he would never have to.

I think that's one of reasons I kept walking as long as I did; it had to have been the hope that, if I couldn't pull together something similar to my old life, at least there was a shred of a chance that maybe I could try and be a new person.

Unfortunately, that alone did not keep me on my feet for an entire month. I think I saw flashes of houses thickly laden between large trees that seemed to scope for miles before I was forced to stop. I couldn't keep going anymore. My arms were in pain, one scratched and dislocated from treatment, and the other beginning to rust from lack thereof. My sight was beginning to play tricks on me. I was dehydrated, starving, because my body could only tolerate so much. I was a broken mess of a partial human, barely a man, barely a person. I even graciously accepted defeat when I finally laid back in one of the tree-heavy fields and shut my eyes, because even if I failed, it was over.

But, as you can tell by the fact that I am relaying this story to you, it wasn't over.

I opened my eyes.

I didn't know where I was, at least not by memory alone. I blinked the days worth of sleep from my heavy eyes and looked around. My vision was still a bit fuzzy, but it was crystal clear compared to its worst. I saw monitors next to me, the source of the faint beeping that was keeping track of my heartbeat (which sounded surprisingly strong). I looked down at my own body, which was draped in a blanket and lain on a somewhat large hospital bed. I tried to move my left arm, which felt a bit tingly, but was still surprisingly easy to do. I pulled it out from under the covers and looked at it; it was bright, free of rust and debris, almost like new, but far less painful than that. I looked around the room again, realizing that I was genuinely in a fully functional hospital room. Realizing this, I looked around in hopes for something I could see my face in. Intent on staying quiet I took a tray from the rolling arm that adorned portions of food, which I moved off of the silver tray and held it to my face.

There was that unrecognizable person again. Dark, almost sad eyes crowning a face full of lines. I'm sure that my face had been dirtier than it was now, but it seemed that my face had been cleaned of dirt that had worn into my face. My hair still found it's way to shroud my face, as if I was the one who needed to be protected from the world. Maybe for a moment I could see a shadow of whoever Bucky was, but it wasn't quite enough. I'd just about been repaired, and I couldn't fathom who would want to ever do that.

The tray almost shot from my hand in shock when the door opened. I was almost humiliated that my first instinct was unadulterated defense. I really was a monster shed of it's teeth. I sighed as I watched a slight form enter the room, a girl that looked like she was approaching the age I pretended to be, with hair almost the colour of wheat in neat curls coming paster her shoulders. She wore a black suit that I recognized almost as quickly as I recognized the crest on the briefcase she held. She offered me a smile (which I did not return, or barely remembered how) and set the silver briefcase down before approaching the foot of my bed. She paced two hands at the footrest, clasping them over each other.

"Good to see that you're awake, Sergeant Barnes," she told me kindly, as if the two of us had history. I didn't know her. I didn't know if I wanted to.

"Who are you," I said finally, my own voice uncertain.

"I'm Agent Fowler," she told me reassuringly, but I was reassured of nothing.

"Where am I," I said, unblinking.

"Mount Desert Island Hospital," she replied, her expression shifting to something that seemed heavy with the weight of the explanation. "Or rather, one of the last remaining SHIELD outposts. You, Barnes, are in one of the purest government facilities. You're safe here."

I found that hard to believe just yet.

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Here we have it, the first chapter of my new baby! As stated, this fic is entirely Bucky-centric, dealing with his very clear PTSD and what have you. I'm really excited to start sharing this budding idea with you all!

Remember, comments and feedback are love!


	2. Chapter 2

After a dubious and slightly lackluster introduction and an even more disappointing explanation, full of files, photos, and statements that were pulled from the briefcase and strewn about, Agent Fowler made a kindhearted attempt to pull me out of my hospital bed and, an attempt that failed when I found myself unable to support my weight enough to walk. Defeated, she helped me limp my heavy for into a wheelchair, outfitting me with a cup full of ice chips after she fixed my sling like a worried mother. She pulled the door open and disappeared back behind me, the wheelchair coming to a quick movement that I hardly expected as she began to wheel me into the hallway.

"Technically, this is just a plain old hospital," she explained to me as she walked me down the hall. "It's actually one of the best hospitals in the entire state. The board offered the sub floor to the SHIELD outpost on the other end of town when HYDRA had been exposed. Essentially, they gave us medical equipment and we gave them our knowledge." I looked around at the people we passed: various doctors and nurses mixed with men and women matching Agent Fowler, both in exterior and demeanor. Kind-looking people that were doing their jobs for the safety of other people. Seemed like it felt nice.

"... can I ask you something," I said quietly, to which Agent Fowler offered a small hum to tell me that I was free to speak my mind, and I sighed slightly, taking time to pick my words as she lead us into the elevator, pressing a button as the elevator doors shut in front of us. "This is SHIELD. You're SHIELD. HYDRA used me as a weapon for..." I turned to look at her quickly as if trying to give her age a ballpark, "... well, far longer than you've been alive. Why haven't you exterminated me already?" I said it so methodically, as if I knew her job better than she did, and she was clearly skipping a step.

In a quick moment, Agent Fowler hit a button on the panel that caused our movement to hault. Maybe I reminded her, I thought, but I was soon proven wrong. She appeared from behind me and leaned against the corner of the elevator, eyes firm on mine, and I suddenly had the chilling feeling of anticipating a lecture. "Sergeant Barnes, there's something I want you to understand about the way we do things here at MDI. We have no interest whatsoever in harming you, let alone exterminating you," she said, the word coming out so bitterly as if I had offended her by using it. I think I might have felt bad, but I might have felt significantly worse if I knew her at all.

I gave her a look, one that I hoped could express my disbelief of anybody wanting to keep me alive, let alone administer medical treatment upon me. "Why wouldn't you?" Almost immediately, I was met with the smile that she had given me when she had seen that I'd woken up; a smile that read of sympathy and relief.

"This outpost does what SHIELD was supposed to do in the first place," she said as she touched the button again, and I felt the elevator jerk back to life again.

"And what's that again?"

Agent Fowler moved from the corner to her spot behind me. "To help people," she said simply.

I made a noise, like a huff of a laugh. "So where are you taking me to help me? Rewire my arm? Peek around my brain, or what?" She returned the huff of a laugh with one of her own, but her breath sounded lighter than mine. The elevator doors opened and she began to push toward a crowded room full of tables and chairs, and the scent of food suddenly hit me.

"I'm taking you to get lunch, see how that helps. Maybe you're less cranky when your blood sugar isn't so low," she mused, and I could almost hear the smile that tugged at the youthful apples of her cheeks. Half of me hoped that she wouldn't continue to make dry jokes like this. The other half hoped they wouldn't stop.

I couldn't clearly remember the last time I had been in a cafeteria. And yes, for the record, I define remembering as having a clear-as-day memory. Considering I had very few of those, I was beginning to have a hard time remembering the last time I'd had a solid meal. As Agent Fowler pushed me to the line, I saw different plates of foods being passed to different people, and she carefully dropped a tray in my lap. "What do you like to eat?" she asked, doe eyes glancing over the different offerings.

I shook my head. "I... I don't know, I'm not sure..." I said honestly. I hadn't redeveloped yet. I didn't know anything about myself, let alone what my favourite foods were. I heard her airy laugh again.

"One of everything, it is," she said decidedly, taking assorted cups, plates, and dishes and adorning them over both of our trays. She walked me toward an empty table and I watched as every few people that passed us gave me a look. A bitter look that shifted between the both of us. Clearly, I wasn't the only person wondering why Fowler was keeping me alive.

She pulled the chair out and nudged my wheelchair to the table, putting both trays between us as she sat down across from me at the tiny table. "Look, you don't have to go out of your way to be so nice to me. I don't deserve it."

I watched as she gave me a look as she brought a cheeseburger to her lips, which she quickly set down. "With all due respect, Sergeant Barnes, it's rude to be so cranky with someone who's only trying to help you."

"Will you just- stop calling me that?" I said sharply, and Fowler jumped slightly, giving me a look like a sad animal. I felt a little bad, but not by much.

"Would you rather I called you Bucky, then?" she said flatly, and I winced.

"Definitely not," I said quickly. "I don't remember anything about that person." She rolled her eyes.

"Well, you have a name, buddy, you've gotta start figuring out what people can call you already. Now eat," she told me, finally taking a bite of the burger she had been interrupted from. I looked over the different entrees that scattered the trays, and I grabbed a cup that seemed full of soup, a warm, sepia-coloured broth with vegetables scattering it. It smelled particularly interesting, and not quite like something my pallette could take right now. I set it back down and reached for a burger that matched hers. I couldn't recall the last time I'd had one. Sighing, I took a bite and looked back at her, expectantly.

"What's your name, huh?" I asked her with a full mouth. She glanced back at me, tracing her finger around the rim of her can of soda.

"Agent Fowler, I thought I told you," she said halfheartedly. I shook my head.

"That's your title, I want to know your name," I insisted, and she watched me as she took a drink, almost as if making sure I wasn't making fun of her.

"Everyone calls me Flick. You can call me Flick," she replied.

"What's that short for?"

"A longer name." I almost wanted to slap that cheeky grin off of her face. "It's a nickname. Like Bucky." I rolled my eyes again, and I knew she could sense my disinterest in hearing that name again. "Look. If you let me call you... Bucky, at the very least, you can just call me Flick."

I sighed. I'd prefer not to hear that name for quite a while, but I didn't have much of a choice. "Fine, whatever. Bucky it is." She smiled, clearly pleased with herself. "So. Flick. What do you do here? For SHIELD, that is."

"Are you asking because you're interested or are you asking because you want to know if I'm some kind of threat?" she asked. I shrugged.

"Bit of both."

Flick smiled an amused sort of smile that seemed to fit her face well. "I'm the head of the outpost's psychological team." I gave her a look of disbelief.

"The head?" I repeated. "What are you, twenty?"

"I'm 25, thanks. How old are you?" she asked with a smile, as if curious to hear my answer. I huffed but I felt the corner of my mouth tug into a half smile of amusement. She grinned at this. "See, this is what I'm hoping to do."

"What, start a comedy career," I said flatly, though still somewhat amused.

"Hah hah," she teased with a grin. "No. There's still a genuine person in you. I want to help you remember who you are and who you were. I don't want to see you as a weapon, I want you to see yourself as someone who helps people."

Nobody had ever said anything so... kind to me before. At least not without needing something from me. I felt like a spooked horse, not sure why it was happening and threatening to canter away. I didn't know what to say to her, so I filled my mouth with food again. I hadn't been aware of it, but I'd made my way through quite a few food portions as we'd spoken. Seems I was far hungrier than I'd expected. She gave me another smile, realizing the food was mostly gone.

"Better, grumpy?" she teased.

"Definitely don't call me that," I instructed her. She snorted, getting up to take care of the trays. I kept my eyes down because it wasn't long before I felt eyes on me again; I didn't like it. This was why I kept walking. Flick returned and the eyes went away, as if they had reason to fear her. Flick never really struck me as a girl who needed, or even wanted, to be feared. She was a small girl with small features, but as I'd learned, clearly her mouth made up for it. I hadn't decided if I liked it or not.

She came back around me and pulled me away from the table with a satisfied sigh. "Alright, Bucky. I think it's about time to show you my lab, we'll be spending a lot of time there-" Flick was cut off when someone approached us, a tall-looking man appearing to be older than her. He had short neat hair and green eyes. He gave Flick an almost enamored look, but the way she returned it made it clear that he was patronising her. I could almost smell how condescending he was about to be.

"Hello, Hemmings," she said flatly as he smiled at her.

"Folwer. What a chance it is to see you here," he said in an overly kind voice. I didn't need to see her face to know she was rolling her eyes. "And you brought a friend, how nice to see you finding people like yourself."

"Bucky, this is Agent Thomas Hemmings. He used to help my division before I gave him the boot for being a conniving little shit," she said with an ironically kind voice. "Hemmings, this-"

"Don't bother, I know who he is. Everyone does, didn't you feel the daggers?" he said, his tone matching hers. Flick scoffed. "Don't get me wrong, I think it's beautiful. Two abominations that just shouldn't be trusted, sounds like a beautiful friendship to me."

In maybe the quickest movement I'd seen all day, Flick came around from me and jerked Hemming's collar toward her, giving him a hard look. "Watch what you say next, I'm not afraid to drop you in the middle of the cafeteria and you know that."

"Exactly. You have no shame in a single thing you do," he said just as harshly. "If it was up to me, both of you would be nowhere near this facility." He shoved her forcefully away. "Watch where you step next, freak." He gave her a threatening look before brushing past us both. I turned to watch him and he shot me an equally threatening look. I turned back to where Flick stood, seeing her rubbing her eyes for a brief moment before she came back behind me.

"I don't like him," I grumbled softly, and Flick sighed.

"Yeah, don't feel bad, nobody does," she said, sounding tired. I felt bad now, genuinely bad, but also curious. What could Flick have possibly done to earn so much disdain from not only Hemmings, but other people that didn't have the guts to approach her. And then there was Hemmings; what did he do to get kicked out of her division?

The trip back down to the sub floor was silent, and I couldn't handle it as she pushed me out of the elevator. "Why did he group you with me like that?" I asked tentatively. She didn't reply, so I assumed she didn't hear. "Flick-"

"I've taken a lot of shit for being... for the things I've done in the name of protecting people," she told me. She didn't go on, so I didn't push it. It wasn't my business.

We stopped in front of a metal door with a small screen by it. Flick pressed her palm flat against the sensor and the doors latched open. She pushed me into the room and lights flickered on, exposing an array of computers and beeping machinery, a desk at the side of the room, and what seemed to be an elevated, reclined examination table. Next to it were two monitors with wires, and I shuddered.

"What is this?" I asked quietly.

"My humble abode, so to say," she replied with what sounded like a smile restored into her voice. "I spend most of my time here when I'm not home."

I looked around at the machinery as she pushed me closer to the examination table. "But what is it for?" I asked firmly. She leaned against the table and gave me a smile that permeated sheer pride of what she was about to tell me.

"We're going to spend the next three or so months in here working on extracting your memories," she told me gleefully. "If all goes well, you'll remember your life before HYDRA. I'm going to help you be your own man again."

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And there's chapter two, longer as promised!

Comments are love!


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